Lilly looked up. “It doesn’t feel like a sanctuary right now. It feels like a target.”
Instead, she went to the art room. Mrs. Vang, the pottery teacher, was glazing a vase. Without a word, Lilly sat at the wheel and began to throw a lump of clay. The spin, the water, the centering—it calmed her. Mrs. Vang finally said, “You know, the first hijab I ever saw was on my college roommate. She said it was like a portable sanctuary.” hijab lilly hall
The whole cafeteria burst into laughter—not at Lilly, but with her. Lilly looked up
She turned to them, adjusted her peach veil, and smiled. The spin, the water, the centering—it calmed her
By October, “Hijab Lilly Hall” was no longer a taunt. It was the name of her art show in the school lobby. She painted fifteen portraits of students in the things that made them targets—braces, crutches, thick glasses, hand-me-down coats, dark skin, bright pink hair. Each portrait had the same title: Sanctuary.
Lilly smiled softly. “I’m from three blocks away, same as you.”
The first person to notice was her best friend, Jordan. “Lil, what is that?” Jordan whispered, tugging her sleeve. “You’re not even… you know, from there.”